Deirdre jolts awake. Her stomach pricks. What is it? Her first thought is the baby, looking in his bassinet. Seliph sleeps with a little snore, hand wrapped around his ankle, and her husband sleeps, too. Something's missing. What is it? She scrubs her face.
She thinks about her grandmother; she'd been playing in the woods when pain struck her heart, only to rush home and find out she'd passed. First, her mother, before she knew anything, and then her grandmother. The fortune teller was the strongest she knew; he still lived.
Her. Sigurd. Seliph. Who else was there to lose?